A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes
by myownsilence
Summary: *Harry wondered about his dreams and his wishes and whether they were different.* I thought Harry's emotional state at the end of Deathly Hallows was left unexplored. I wanted to explore it. Short fic. My first upload.


'When Harry was small, the television was a novelty, because he was not usually allowed in the sitting room with the Dursleys. But on days when they had visitors, Aunt Petunia put her foot down. 'I won't have your family thinking we're monsters,' he heard her telling Uncle Vernon when they thought he was still asleep. 'He can't just sit in that cupboard when people are here. He won't do any harm for a couple of hours.'

So when Dudley's cousin Moira came round he would sit with them and watch the same videos, cartoons with brightly coloured pictures, full of high-pitched lurid accents. And he knew, even though he was small, that when animals talked to you it was Wrong and Bad, but in these films it seemed to be all right.

But there was a song, in one of the films that Moira liked the best (which you could always tell because they were the ones that made Dudley complain and make more vomiting noises than usual), that Harry always thought about long afterwards, and the melody sometimes came back to him years later when he woke sweating and shaking in tight-wound sheets. _A dream is a wish your heart makes, when you're fast asleep_…

He wondered if it was true. His dreams were just a white face, and a voice that looked like silver, and a flash of green. And sometimes he did wish for that flash of green which he somehow knew was the end of things. And he knew he would never choose it, if thought was involved, but there is that vast gulf between knowing something and really feeling it. So he wondered about his dreams and his wishes and whether they were different. Whether that rushing light and sound was his dearest wish.

The first time he made love to Ginny he was terrified he would hurt her. He stalled and stalled. He didn't tell her that sometimes in his dreams he saw the red of her hair trickling past her ears, down over her eyelids, and then realised it was not the same red at all, but darker and fluid, and by the time he smelt the blood she had gone limp in his arms. She was less afraid than he was, but then she is always braver than him, because of course she has a choice. She was never asked to save the world.

Sometimes, he sees Dumbledore's smiling, condescending face, and looks up at it, because he is small again, as small as when he first went to Hogwarts and felt saved. Dumbledore swims out of focus above him and says 'You've really earned this.' The badge he holds out is shiny like Percy's. So long ago. But instead of HEAD BOY it says HERO. The gold letters on the red. Dumbledore goes to fasten the badge to Harry's chest. Pinches a fold of Harry's bare skin and pushes the pin through. The blood speckles his long hands, rolls down Harry's stomach. Dumbledore's eyes twinkle.

Sometimes, Hermione's hand is tight around his, like the times when he knew she was afraid. He breaks free and hits her roughly in the face. Points a wand and says '_Crucio_.' Her face shivers, her hair is darker and her eyes hooded for a second, then another shift and her mouth twists into a lopsided leer. He wants to hurt her more. '_Crucio_!' He watches her this time, rather than just hearing her scream. The rigid arms and legs, the wrenching tendons in her neck. He hears himself laugh.

Sometimes, Ron comes to him, and he is carrying Fred. His arms, wrapped around his dead brother, are striped with thick welts. Other times he holds nothing, but reaches out to Harry, his lips moving soundlessly. Harry leans in to try to hear what his friend is saying but the words don't reach his ears. He leans closer still and kisses Ron once, gently, on his cheek. Then he pushes something sharp and final into the soft flesh of his abdomen, turns and walks away.

Sometimes, after James is born, Harry hears him crying in the night. As if following an unravelled thread he walks into the child's room. But the thing in the cot is not his son. Its skin is red and raw; its eyes are slit like a snake's. The sound it makes is not the sound that called him in. It writhes and snivels. Harry covers its awful face with a pillow and holds it until the thing stops moving. It is only when he moves the pillow aside that he sees James again, dark-haired and pale and still, now, under his hands.

Sometimes, he is making love to Ginny and his eye is caught by a new swirl of black and green on his forearm. He stops for a moment and brushes back black hair. His hands look different. He says her name and his voice is higher, colder. She opens her arms ever wider to him, closes her eyes and smiles. The name she sighs, in a voice which could be saying _at last_, is not his.

Sometimes, sometimes, her hair darkens a shade, her freckles fade. The assonance of the names strikes him. _Ginny. Lily. _Only the consonants are different. He, or someone else, holds her by the throat and squeezes hard. She only closes her eyes and welcomes it. _A dream is a wish your heart makes_. The flash of green. The snake watches from the corner of the room.

When he wakes the sheets are always cold with sweat and twisted around his limbs. He always reminds himself to breathe. Always.

Ginny frowns and edges away from him in her sleep and he counts the cracks on the ceiling and reminds himself. _All is well. All is well. _


End file.
